


The Porcelain Surgeon

by TQ121



Series: The Most Exquisite Corpse [1]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 05:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19144492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TQ121/pseuds/TQ121
Summary: Rhys is a surgeon in training and running from the law.Jack finds Rhys passed out on his door, and saves his life.Or how The Most Exquisite Corpse beginsThis is another piece in a series created byDauverneyand I.





	The Porcelain Surgeon

**Author's Note:**

> This is another piece in a series created by [Dauverney](https://dauverney.tumblr.com) and I.  
> Its now got the name The Most Exquisite Corpse and is about Rhys being an young anatomist and Jack as a resurrectionist. Gothic Horror ensues.
> 
> I also want to thank [Pumpkin](https://teapotgroovymagic.tumblr.com) for helping me beta this fic and make it as good as it can be. =3

“You butcher!” The burly man shouted as he pushed Rhys against the wall of his own home. 

Rhys hugged his medical bag tighter to his chest and stared down his nose at the short ruffian, curling his lip up in disgust he snapped. “I hardly care about the opinions of a cabbage head!”

The man’s meaty fist made the door frame creak as it impacted and Rhys glanced fearfully at the blow he had barely dodged.

“A man doesn’t need any fancy schooling to know right from wrong.” The broader man snarled. “Or to know I’m going to teach you a lesson that- FUCK!”

Rhys pulled his scalpel out of the man’s stubble covered cheek, and raised it up again to shove it into the man’s shoulder barely missing his carotid artery. Rhys didn’t have time to lament how sloppy his cuts were as he ran through the kitchen and out the servant’s entrance of his small London home.

He didn’t stop to wait for the shouting man to catch up with him and ignored how his hand that had held the scalpel was now absolutely covered in blood. The early morning air was chilly and the industrial smog darkened the sky to the point it was hard to navigate in his panicked hurry.

He ran right into a uniformed cop who barely had time to sound affonted before he saw the blood. “Sir!”

Before a question could be asked or Rhys could be stopped he answered, “It's not that bad, head wounds just bleed a lot!”

In looking back to the officer he then spotted his assailant, covered in blood and calling for attention.

Unwilling to provide time-consuming explanations Rhys turned onto the busy road and immediately tripped over the cobblestone. In a brief second of horror Rhys felt his back hit the ground as a horse’s hoof sailed over Rhys’ head. He couldn’t roll away fast enough and the carriage didn’t stop. Rhys could feel his bones crack and pop into pulp beneath the weight of the carriage wheel while blinding pain racked his body.

For a second he blacked out but was called back into consciousness when a policeman’s whistle cut through his fog.

“Stop him! He butchered my wife!”

His arm felt cold as he stumbled to his feet and ran.

His scalpel had been abandoned on the road but Rhys held onto his medical bag like a lifeline.

There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to where his feet took him and the way he kept momentarily blacking out confused his sense of direction even more. He didn’t stop, not even when he no longer could hear his pursuers behind him.

His face felt numb and the chill curled all the way down to his bones when he finally reached his destination.

Throwing himself into the door despite the early hour he yelled. “Help! I need help!”

When a porcelain doll answered the door Rhys finally collapsed.

* * *

 

But Rhys wasn’t blessed with unconsciousness.

 

Nor would his mind stay fully awake.

Instead he drifted in and out.

 

One moment hearing coarse language as he lay in the street, the next he was being dragged across the floor of a clinic.

He lost all focus when he blacked out, next he found himself tossed onto a slab where he recognized the faces of resurrectionists.

Was he dead?

He didn’t want his corpse to be sold to an inferior anatomist.

“Why waste the effort if he’s going to die anyway?” A cruel (or was it practical) woman’s voice asked.

Confused, Rhys tried to push himself up but his right arm wouldn’t obey him. “Am I alive?”

He lost focus and only came to again after he felt a bottle pulled away from his lips. It was the noxiously bitter taste of laudanum that had pulled him from his stupor enough that he tried to look around.

He was stopped by large hands holding Rhys’ shoulders down and the way his right arm throbbed with each heartbeat demanded his attention. He wanted to look but all he could see was what was above him and even that was mostly obscured by a large grey beard. 

Oddly, Rhys started crying before he realized how much agony he was in and he wished for another drink of the bitter tincture.

Then the porcelain doll removed their face and a scarred demon stood over him holding a bone saw. “Nisha stop fucking around and help Wilhelm.”

Rhys couldn’t move, but he could see his arm for a brief moment, it was going black from hematoma and while that was concerning Rhys felt his eyes grow heavy and nothingness claimed him again.

Soon, screaming woke Rhys up and he wished it would stop, he just wanted to sleep.

Then a women’s hand was forced over his mouth and the screaming was muffled.

Whimpering behind the hand, he saw the scarred demon sweating from exertion and covered in blood. 

 

The demon grunted. 

Rhys threw up in his mouth.

 

Eyes rolling up into his head Rhys finally, completely lost awareness.

* * *

 

“Do you actually think this idiot is going to live?” Nisha asked, cleaning her hand with a towel.

Jack shrugged as he carefully bandaged the young anatomist’s stump. “Probably not, but he definitely wasn’t going to with that arm still attached.”

Laughing, Nisha shook her head. “That bleeding heart is going to get you in trouble one of these days.”

“Hey, this bleeding heart pays you.” Jack complained, and got the bile covered towel thrown into his face.

* * *

 

Rhys woke up shivering in the dark and pulled the old sheet covering him closer.

His skin felt clammy and all he could remember after the chase through London was being woken up by a prickly lady and forced to drink a salty broth. Remembering that she had seen him in his smallclothes made a blush rise on Rhys’ cheeks but in the dark no one could see evidence of his embarrassment.

Pulling the sheet tighter around his body Rhys tried to fend off the cold even though his cover felt damp and smelled of his perspiration.

It slid all too easy off his right shoulder and his missing right arm was something Rhys could no longer ignore. Blindly, he felt around the bandages and slid his fingers between them to feel the stump of his arm.

Whoever the surgeon was they were knowledgeable and skilled enough to use the fish-mouth method. Absentmindedly, Rhys felt along the seam of the tender stitches appreciating how neatly they had been made.

The pain was enough that Rhys’ stomach turned but his curiosity was too much to bear. The memory of his mother's frown attempted to guilt him, to curb him of his unnatural curiosity, but he had cut the strings she used to manipulate him years ago.

Holding the sheet to his body he fumbled in the dark. His legs shook beneath him as they took his weight, and he stumbled back into the unseen table he’d been laid upon and grunting in annoyance he then, with the aid of his mouth, tied the sheet at his shoulder in a cheap imitation of a Roman senator.

It felt loose around his body but allowed him to use his left hand to feel around.

The table he leaned on was made with hardwood and had another occupant but Rhys knew in his gut that this was no infirmary. It also wasn't some back alley surgeon’s place because the papery thin skin of the man beside him was ice cold.

He felt up the cheap wool of the suit until his hand was on the stubble-prickled face. It lacked the plump elasticity of living flesh, the cheeks felt sunken in, with careful assessment he knew the body no longer had teeth.

Then Rhys knew where his panicked feet had taken him.

Rhys ran through the faces that were already fading from memory but could only remember the woman who had held him down and later fed him. Nisha must have been under some kind of orders because he was certain she had none of the virtues of the softer sex.

But he wasn’t sure who else it could have been as he rarely interacted with the other resurrectionists. Feeling around blindly he searched for a door but instead found more work tables. The exploration was making his bare feet feel raw from the cold, roughly packed earth beneath them and he paused to lean against a table to rub warmth back into his foot.

Rhys' stomach made an unhappy gurgle, it was all on top of the constant ache from his shoulder. 

Wandering in the dark wasn't helping him as much as he had hoped.

So, biting back his pride and independent nature Rhys called out. "Hello? Nisha? Anybody!?"

Raising his voice again in hopes of being heard he repeated, "Hello?"

Rhys' call went unheard as the morning sun warmed the veranda. That same light warmed Jack's skin and his porcelain mask trapped the sweat that beaded over his forehead beneath it. The mask was a caricature of Jack in his youth but like any simulacrum of the face it didn't quite work. It's perfectly pale skin and cartoonishly rosey cheeks made the face too sweet for a man of his age.

Fitting or not Jack would insist it was a better sight than the war-torn face underneath.

So he took advantage of the sunshine on a quiet Sunday while he looked through his patient’s notes.

To say finding a mutilated medical student at his clinic’s door was a surprise would be understating things but Jack was a man of action and had seen men die of less and survive worse on the Indian subcontinent. He knew nothing of the boy’s character when he operated aside from the fact both Nisha and Wilhelm had provided him with bodies to study. It didn’t matter at the time though. Jack had never considered himself a healer but he had always wanted to be the hero.

So he cut off the kid’s arm knowing that it wasn’t going to heal properly and Jack didn’t want to play the game of cutting off more and more arm as it rotted away hoping it would stop before the sickness reached his heart. This was easier and safer and if Rhys had a problem with it, well, he should thank his stars if he survived at all.

And he did.

When Jack had deemed the medical student stable enough Jack had Wilhelm and Nisha transport the boy from his city clinic to his comfortable mansion in the country in case Rhys decided to die or bleed on more things, then he could stay with the other bodies waiting for transportation to the medical schools.

It was after he saw Rhys’ beautifully drawn sketches that he became interested in anything beyond the basic desire to be a savoir. If he also wished to reap the benefits of having a young student in his debt, well, it wasn’t like charity put food on the table.

But those sketches drew far more attention than any bodily concern for Rhys. The precision of the anatomical drawings was breathtaking and the notes (while individually not groundbreaking) showed an attention to detail Jack rarely saw.

There were even drawings of a woman that, by the young anatomists’ estimates, was 5 months pregnant at death. Jack had never seen the details of a woman in such a state sketched out and was disappointed to discover that  only a few sketches existed.

Rhys might end up being more useful than Jack first thought.

Taking out a notebook Jack started taking proper notes and got lost enough in his work when a tragically annoying voice interrupted him.

“Sir, one of the dead bodies is making noise in the basement!”

With a sigh Jack turned around to glare at Claptrap. Despite the man being someone Jack had helped fit with many prosthetics he had no sympathy for the man. He was kept around more as a guinea pig than anything but it didn’t make his personality any more enjoyable for him.

“How many times do I have to explain this; dead bodies don’t make noise. At the worst they fart when they shit themselves and my bodies have been dead too long for that.”

“Gross, you really should think twice about keeping them in the basement if they make a mess like that.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose Jack corrected. “They are not going to make a mess. We keep them cool and sell them off before they begin to stink. I know what I’m doing.”

“Well then, why is one of them yelling for help?” Claptrap looked shocked then, and continued,“UNLESS its a ghost. Maybe they were murdered and they’re asking for help seeking bloody revenge!”

Grinding his teeth, Jack tried to block out the annoying man’s voice to determine the cause of what had brought the idiot to him in the first place. It was impossible to think when Claptrap spoke, and it was made worse when he wouldn’t shut up.

At the end of his rope, he put his hand over Claptrap’s mouth to muffle him and after a moment he was able to connect the dots.

“The voice is from the basement right?”

“I keep telling you that, but you’re like ‘ _ nooo! Dead people don’t make noise!’ _ And then you admit they do, but then claim  _ ‘not the way I’m thinking _ ’, and…”

“Shut up!” Jack snarled, “We put that medical student down there, remember? He’s probably awake.”

Claptrap stared dumbly at Jack as if the information was taking forever to sink in. “Oh, I thought he was dead. I mean, he looked dead. And you put him in the room where all the dead people go. Are you sure he isn’t dead?”

“Yes, I’m sure, now go do something useful, like clean the dining hall or something.” Jack ordered as he moved past Claptrap, ignoring any protests that surely followed.

He walked with an excited energy to the kitchen were the cook stopped, and stood at attention to his arrival.

“Sweetheart, get an early lunch ready- including something for my patient.”

“Patient, sir?” She asked, wishing she was surprised when the master of the house walked right into the land of women and servants.

“Yeah, needs something gentle on the stomach. He lost his arm, after all.” Jack didn’t care about how inappropriate this was and grabbed a lantern.

He lit it with a match, thankful he was now in a situation he could afford candlelight with minimal smoke.

His servent nodded and showed none of her discomfort. She was paid handsomely enough to ignore Jack’s less legal side businesses after all. It was distasteful, but it was also more food to put on her family’s table.

Jack descended down the narrow stairs that lead to the food cellar filled with root vegetables and other such edibles but spared no time in looking at them, instead going to the inner chamber door. It was unassuming and hardly worth a second glance but Jack opened it and climbed down the stairs by candle light down to the sub-basement.

Each step creaked and a chill came over Jack from the cool earth surrounding him.

“Hello?”

Jack lifted his candle up, no longer needing to watch every step, and white as death Rhys sat on one of the unoccupied tables.

The younger man covered his eyes, unable to adapt so quickly from the pitch blackness. “You couldn’t have left me somewhere not surrounded by corpses could you?”

Jack froze. He hadn’t expected such a response. At least some panic would have been normal, maybe gratitude.  Not whatever this was. “Yeah well, I didn’t want you to bleed all over my floors.”

Walking closer, he looked over Rhys who was doing well for having lost an arm; he wasn’t dead and that was always a success in Jack’s book.

“God forbid I do that, it's like running for my life made me forget my manners.” Rhys pouted, “Speaking of, why am I here and not sent off to my family?”

Jack’s smile sharpened like a shark’s as he circled closer. He needed to look over Rhys completely to make sure he was healing well but it looked like other things had to be dealt with first. “It's not like you gave me their address and I figured since you collapsed at my doorstep getting the authorities involved wouldn’t have been in your favor.”

Rhys frowned, curling his arm around his torso defensively. "Look, you know how it is."

"Do I?" Jack asked, practically nose-to-nose with Rhys. The effect was only dampened by the fact Rhys was taller. "Explain it, kiddo."

Snorting, Rhys pulled back with clear disgust. "A guy found out I'm an anatomist. He attacked me for 'desecrating' the dead."

Jack pulled away and set his lamp down on a table. "Got caught with your hand in the cookie jar, did ya? Wonder what your university will think of that? Not to mention... people are going to be asking about your arm and if you can even do your job now."

"I just need to lay low for a while is all, and the arm is going to be a minor set back at most." Rhys answered with false bravado, "my work is too important to give up now."

Jack watched Rhys thoughtfully. He needed to test his resolve. "Your anatomical sketches are pretty good, but you're missing your right hand. How good are they going to be now?"

"I'm left handed." Rhys retorted but a brief rush of insecurity pushed him to explain. "I was taught to write with my right hand, but I only did that when my tutors watched. All my sketches and most of my private notes are done left handed."

"Huh, interesting." Jack smiled. "Well you're still gonna need a prosthetic arm and frankly, I'm the perfect guy for that. Really, you are going to owe me big time because not only did I save your life and give you a place to lay low, but I'm going to give you an apprenticeship at my clinic. I've been thinking of finding one for a while but I need someone who can keep quiet when bodies come in and out the back door."

Rhys tried to look Jack over to judge exactly how much he was getting yanked around, but the mask made Jack nearly impossible to read, especially in the dim candle light. After a moment he held out his hand to shake. "You're Handsome Jack, right? That's what your resurrectionists call you."

He took Rhys hand in his despite the awkwardness of shaking hands with his left. "That's right, but you can call me Jack. I sound less like a criminal that way."

Shaking hands firmly, Rhys nodded, "I'm Rhys Strongfork."

"That's not your name." Jack argued amusement clear in his voice.

Rhys pouted at being called out but explained, "well, it's what I call myself to avoid association with my family."

"Well then, Mr. Strongfork, before I have you join my family upstairs I need one more thing." Jack picked up the lantern and beckoned Rhys with his hand.

"That is?"

"Cover your head with the sheet, I want to see if we can make the scullery maid scream."


End file.
